


The New Master

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Series: To Master and to Serve [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abusive dom, Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Blood, Bruises, Canonical Character Death, Cholera epidemic, Cock Slapping, Desk Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gloves, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Leashes, Loyalty, M/M, Manhandling, Obedience, Paris Era, Paris Police Prefecture, Person Can't Say No to Sex, Petplay, Training, Whipping, authority kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: The Prefect takes up the leash of an old hound.





	The New Master

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



He was ordered to take up his position. 

After eight months, it came naturally to him. He divested himself of his uniform and spread himself face down upon the lacquered surface of the Prefect's writing-desk, under the domed ceiling of the Prefect's lavish inner office.

Of course each patron would have his own preferences. For the seventeen years that he had served M. Chabouillet, the Secretary of the First Bureau had preferred him upon his hands and knees. Chabouillet had been strict but circumspect in discipline; he had been decisive in training and had never needed to give any order a second time. He had been a grave and towering presence in the Prefecture for decades, and one to whom Javert owed everything of note in his life.

Gisquet was a very different proposition. Younger than Chabouillet, years younger than Javert himself; he was whipcord-lithe and elaborately dressed, as flexible as his former Secretary had been unbending, and as opaque and capricious in training as Chabouillet had been direct.

On this occasion, as with many others, Javert did not know what infraction he had committed. 

It did not matter, of course. It was not his place to question his orders. His new patron had ordered him to disrobe and present himself for discipline, and it was his duty to obey.

The Prefect's writing-desk was large and old-fashioned, with carved, gilded legs, solid enough to have survived the Revolution. Its glossy varnish could not conceal the history that scarred its wooden surfaces. It had been divested of its usual documents and blotting-paper; its sole adornment was a silver-framed miniature of the recently deceased former Prime Minister, which no hand save Gisquet's was permitted to move from its rightful place.

Javert observed the miniature from the corner of his eye, and the hawk-like visage looked back. The Prime Minister had been Gisquet's patron for decades. The Prefect had been unusually agitated during the long weeks of epidemic that had swept through Paris in the spring, a wasting cholera that had proved fatal to many citizens as well as M. Périer; Gisquet had become even more troubled in these months that had followed his patron's death. 

"Count three for me," Gisquet said, grimly, and there was the by-now-familiar sound of leather slicing through the air.

Javert did not need to watch the graceful arc of the whip when he could hear the song of its flight. He closed his eyes as the braided coil struck fire across his shoulders.

"One," he said. After eight months, his body did not flinch, and his voice was steady. "It is my honour to serve M. le Préfet."

"I hope so," Gisquet said. "You have not been easy to train, Inspector."

This time the fine leather raised a precise line of pain across the small of Javert's back. Javert could not entirely contain the breath that hissed through his teeth, nor the involuntary jerk of his body under the lash.

"Two, Monsieur. My apologies for my slowness."

Gisquet drawled, "Perhaps you are just intractable to change. What's that they say about old dogs and new masters?"

"M. le Préfet?" Javert asked, frowning, and Gisquet chose this time to strike yet again, aiming across Javert's naked arse. 

Javert grunted out a curse before he could bite it back, arching himself involuntarily off the table in equal parts of surprise and pain. Gisquet did not usually strike below the waist, as he preferred to keep his clothes unblemished when he imposed himself upon his submissives afterwards. It felt as if the Prefect's blows had raised bruises and welts upon his flesh that were starting, messily, to ooze. 

"What was that?"

Trembling, Javert clung to the edges of the table, forcing himself to remain rigid and unmoving. "The third stroke, M. le Préfet. I apologise for my moment of weakness."

"Weakness, indeed," Gisquet mused.

The fourth stroke, unanticipated and unaccounted for, took Javert entirely off guard. It lashed across the meat of Javert's bare thighs; this time it undoubtedly broke the skin, and Javert was unable to stop himself from crying out. He writhed against the table, realising, to his humiliation, that he had grown hard against its lacquered surface. 

He heard the whip clatter to the floor, and Gisquet's gloved hand made a fist in his hair.

"Perhaps I ought not be surprised. You have served André for so long, and he so indulgent of you. It stands to reason his old hound would be so set in its ways. Turn over, man, you're bleeding."

Javert felt himself hauled upright by his hair. He managed to turn himself around, and to lie down upon his back across the desk. The wounds lashed into his shoulders and back and rear burned like brands, pressed as they were against the lacquered wooden surface. It was not the first time this table had seen someone's blood, and Javert felt certain it would not be the last.

He raised his feet to the edge of the desk. Gisquet clicked his tongue in disapproval at the smear of blood across Javert's thighs. 

"You will just get it on me anyway, won't you. Never mind then, stay put."

Dizzily, Javert watched as his patron positioned himself a half-pace away from the table, unfastening finely-pressed trousers to take himself in a gloved hand. Gisquet's member was not as large as Chabouillet's, but well-formed, round head a flushed and ruddy hue, shaft thick enough to make any untrained protégé choke upon it.

Gisquet began to handle himself in firm, flowing strokes. Frowning, he continued, "I need men of utmost loyalty, who are of use to the state. After this accursed sickness, there are people ready to make trouble. We must be ready; we cannot be caught off-guard again."

"I will be ready," Javert whispered, the rhythm of Gisquet's hand mirroring the fluid ease of his whip strokes. "I will not be caught off-guard, Monsieur."

Gisquet muttered, "You must set your resolve. You must aim to be better than this. An old dog like you -- _damn it_ \--" His handsome face grimaced and his body stiffened, and he spent himself abruptly, shooting ropes of white across his hand, and across Javert's body, as if it were part of the Prefecture's furniture.

Gisquet took a harsh breath, two, and then he was master of himself once more. He took a slow half-step forward, and with his gloved forefinger and thumb begain to rub circles in the sticky release against Javert's inner thighs and groin. Javert was still hard, and he had to close his eyes as the Prefect's impossibly smooth fingers took hold of his prick and squeezed.

"What did I tell you, Inspector? You cannot afford to be asleep at your post. I need you with your eyes and ears open, straining at the leash."

"Yes, Monsieur," Javert panted. He forced his eyes open; he watched as Gisquet hauled off and aimed a short slap at his erection. 

This was new; Gisquet had never before sought to strike him in this intimate way. Javert blinked away the sharp pain, and Gisquet slapped him again.

"Tell me you understand," Gisquet said, and Javert fought back a groan.

"I understand! M. le Préfet." 

"See that you do." Gisquet said, and traced Javert's swollen balls with one finger. "Our Prime Minister is lost to us, and I have to secure this city and its citizens without him. I need a loyal hound whom I can trust."

Javert kept his eyes open as Gisquet began to stroke him. This, too, was new; the Prefect had never been much interested in pleasuring his most recently-acquired protégé. The glove had seen such frequent use that its leather had become butter-soft; slippery with spend, it caressed Javert's shaft in an assured, wringing slide that would bring Javert very quickly to climax and to heel.

"I am loyal," Javert murmured, spreading his thighs for the Prefect. He told himself he was committed to the unremitting yoke of Authority, as willingly as he had laid himself upon the Prefect's desk. He knew he should be pleased: he had not stinted in duty or obedience, and was now as a result receiving this rare sign of Gisquet's favour. 

Yet, under the steady hand of his new master, he found his body was filled with as much disquiet as desire. 

He had heard of masters who placed an animal collar upon their protégés, who had them secured behind the bars of a cage as if they were fighting dogs, who would train them to come or to fetch like a house pet or withhold food and affection in order to better hone them for attack. Thus far Gisquet had not required such exacting submission from him, but he did not know if Gisquet's talk of hounds and leashes heralded yet another new avenue in their relationship -- a role which he did not feel entirely competent, nor entirely willing, to play.

Perhaps it was true after all: he had grown so accustomed to Chabouillet's ways that it was difficult to bend to another's service. Perhaps his own tastes in discipline and punishment had altered over the years, or perhaps it was in truth only at Chabouillet's hands had he ever desired these things. Perhaps he was truly too old a hound to learn to submit to the tug of a new leash. 

Across the desk, Périer's irreproachable visage glared sternly from underneath the miniature's glass. As Javert spent himself in the Prefect's grasp, he had to turn away from that hard stare, which saw so many things that Javert clearly could not.


End file.
